


Twenty-Fourth

by Chokopoppo



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies), Treasure Planet (2002)
Genre: M/M, almost certainly the weirdest crossover I've ever done, space dads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 17:19:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3258056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chokopoppo/pseuds/Chokopoppo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine being stuck in a groundhog day loop on the apocalypse. Imagine falling in love with someone you know won't make it until the end of the day.</p><p>Edge Of Tomorrow AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty-Fourth

**Author's Note:**

> Can't say I'm really anticipating anyone reading this - but what the heck, it's probably the oneshot that I'm proudest of, and it belongs on this Ao3. I hope one day, someone reads this, and goes "wow. That is a very well written completely bizarre idea."
> 
> Enjoy?

"So you don’t talk too much, huh?"

Jim glances at you from the wheel, eyes steely. “Not a fan, no,” he says, focusing hard on the road as though there were traffic. You tap your knee with a finger idly, glance at the hole where the door of the car used to be, before you tore it out getting in. Not much to look at. Trees. Occasional abandoned car. Broken highway markers. They’re familiar, though you wish they weren’t. You’ve been here before.

"You usually start talking around the 115 turnpike," you say, dreamlike, "you tell me about the first time you broke your wrist because you were trying to get a cat out of a tree, and you fell out, and your mom yelled at you for three days straight." Glance at him. His mouth is a set line, usually, but it’s a little pinched now, like he’s trying not to smile. Cautiously, but your confidence building, you press on. "And, and you told me your middle name."

He turns to look at you again, raises an eyebrow. He is definitely trying not to smile now. “I don’t think I would’ve told you _that_ , kid.”

"You did! You said it was Michael!"

Maybe it’s your face, maybe it’s just your conviction, but he spits laughter, startled by his own mirth, shaking his head, eyes sparkling. You’ve never heard his laugh before, no matter how many times you do this. It’s understated. Warm.

"You _sure_ I wasn’t just saying that to make you shut up or something? My middle name’s not _Michael_ , dude.”

"I dunno, man, you’re the one who said it." You’re laughing too, but it aches. You’ve been here before, more than once. You know where this road goes. You know where this car ride ends.

He really doesn’t talk much, and it’s another ten minutes - ten miles - down the road before you try again. You’re somber, this time. “So who’s…who’s Silver?”

There’s a long pause. It’s an awful, dead silence. When he speaks, his voice cuts straight through you. “Who told you that name?”

This is dangerous, you know instantly - dark and painful and old, not for you but for him, and you’re used to your own pain by now but you’re not to his, and this hurts more - but you’re not going to back down. The only way out is forwards. “You, uh, you did. Do. An hour and a half from now. You…” you swallow, hard. Remembering hurts. “You think I’m him.”

"Don’t ever say that name again." White knuckles. Hard eyes.

You look at your knees, then through the broken windshield. “I’m sorry,” you say, your voice cracked and broken. It hurts to hear him.

Another long, quiet pause. “He was my friend,” Jim says softly, distantly, “he was my friend. I watched him die three hundred times. And no matter how many times,” his grip on the wheel tightens, his voice raises, “no matter how many times I did the loop, I couldn’t save him. Not once. Not ever.” He’s shaking, his teeth clenched together. The wretchedness of his words resonates through every chord in your body, and your throat closes up. “Just…forget it. Forget it.”

You don’t try to say anything. There are no words.

The next hour happens the same way it always does - car runs out of gas. Walk to the nearest house - you know where it is, you’ve been there twenty times by now, it’s across the highway and through a cornfield and up a hill - hunt through, look for gas to siphon back to the car. The Bentley in the garage is empty, dirtied. Everything in the house is dulled in a sheen of dust. Whoever evacuated from here cleared out a long time ago. There are pictures on the mantlepiece, but you and Jim avoid them instinctively. Pictures hurt.

You watch his back as he investigates out the garage door, stare down the spot on his shoulder where you know he’s hiding an injury. His voice keeps ringing in your ears.

_Don’t ever say that name again._

You wonder if, in five years, ten years, you’ll turn to ice when someone says “Jim Hawkins”. You wonder if he knows how many times you’ve seen him die, how many times you’ve watched him kill you. You wonder, blearily, if he would let you kiss him, if you told him.

You wonder if he’s found the helicopter in the backyard yet.

~~

"Where do you think the keys to it are?" The both of you are standing in front of the chopper, admiring your good luck. Or at least, he thinks it’s good luck. Nothing in you can bring you to explain the next thirty minutes to him, and you bite the side of your mouth, shove fingers deep down into your pockets.

"Probably somewhere in the house, I guess," you shrug noncommittally, "but it’d be, you know, _easier_ to just siphon the gas out back to the van - you know, like we planned - “

"Why would we drive when we can fly?" He pats the helicopter, and you catch yourself hoping he’ll reach too high. He doesn’t - he’s being careful. Smart.

"Well, you know…" Your foot starts digging a hole in the dirt. "I mean, do you even know how to fly a helicopter? It’s not like driving a car, you know."

"I assume you do. Or that you’ll be learning soon," he says, and shrugs - and winces desperately away from his own motion. There it is. The wound on his shoulder. Time to stall.

"What’s wrong?"

"Nothing - "

"You’re injured."

"Hiccup, it’s _nothing_ , I’m _fine_ \- “

But you grab him by the wrist anyway, harder than you probably should, reach for the front of his jacket. He wriggles like he’s trying to get away, then gives up, lets you pull the battle armor off the clothing below. It’s a deep, nasty gash - you know the jagged curvature exactly. You’ve treated it enough times before. “We’re not going anywhere,” you say, sharply, “until you at _least_ patch this up, or let me patch you up, or something.” You want to add ‘and we’re not taking the helicopter at all’ - but you know it’s not going to work. Jim’s already scowling at you for catching him out on his bluff.

You find bandages. You find coffee. You let him think you’re looking for the keys to the helicopter. He’s on edge - you’re setting up the coffee maker when you hear the click of his gun and wheel around to find him pointing at you.

"Aw, come on, man," you say, palms forward.

"Look, Hiccup, I’m sorry, I really am, but I’m in pain, and I’m tired, and I really think we’ll just do better in the long run with a clean start," he says.

"You’re tired?" You snap, brows furrowing. Take a step forward. “ _You’re_ tired? Jim, do you know how long I’ve been doing this? Do you, do you remember how long _you_ were doing this? You _did_ this. You _remember_. I’m tired, Jim, _I’m_ tired. You’ve done today _once_. You don’t _get_ to be tired.”

He stares at you for a second, contemplatively - then lowers the gun. “I’m sorry,” he says, and all your anger sort of evaporates. You look at his boots.

"S’okay."

"That doesn’t mean I’m not going to shoot you," he adds, "it just means I’m going to let you have coffee first. I can’t believe you found it in the first place. It’s kind of a black market commodity, these days."

You smile in spite of yourself, crooked, and turn back to searching through cupboards. “Alright, alright, give me twenty minutes for coffee, it’s almost done, maybe we’ll find the keys to the helicopter, so, you know, that’s productive.”

"Five minutes."

"Ten," you protest, and set two coffee mugs on the counter. "You take sugar in yours, right?"

"Yeah," he relaxes slightly in his chair,and you wonder just how much pain he’s in for a second. Better not to ask. "To both. Sugar and ten minutes, I mean. Whatever."

"Right, right," you say, nodding. "You take three, right?"

He hesitates for a second. What looked like the beginning of a smile is fading. “Yeees.”

"Right, okay," you say, and pass him his mug. He didn’t sleep last night, you can tell - the skin is deep around his eyes, the pale lines under them more pronounced. Skinny fingers wrap around the handle, brush your knuckles, and you flinch away instinctively.

He has ten minutes.

"I’m gonna go look for the keys," you say, grab your own mug, motion towards a cabinet across the room. "There’s a shirt in there - should be your size - not torn up or anything." Thoughts come out of your mouth jaggedly. You get out of the room.

You make the pretense of rattling around in the drawers of the kitchen. A gun clicks behind you - hand on your shoulder - your back slams into the wall, barrel pressing into your neck. You really wish he wouldn’t do that, not when you know the threat isn’t empty.

"How many times have we been here, Hiccup?" His voice is even, but he’s angry. You glance to the window, trying not to answer, but he shoves you in the center of your chest hard, rattles you against the wood. "How many times?"

"This, this," you swallow hard - no matter how many times you do this, he always scares you when he gets mad. "This is twenty-four."

He breathes out through his nose hard. “Where are the keys?”

"Jim, please - "

“ _Where are the keys_ , Hiccup.”

They’re in your pocket. They were in the helicopter. You produce them - the snatches them from your hand and turns to the back door without a glance back. He has two minutes, tops. You were stupid to hope for ten. You stumble after him into the backyard.

"Jim, please, just listen to me, we have to siphon the gas - "

"God DAMMIT, Haddock, we don’t have TIME," he snarls, whirls around, eyes burning. "We’ve already wasted enough here, I thought maybe it was your first or second round here with the way you were dawdling but apparently this is a fucking game to you. You can already fly it, can’t you."

His anger steamrollers your guts, every time. “I can - I can take off,” you stammer. “I haven’t, uh. I haven’t gotten the hang of landing, really. But Jim - “

"Then we move now."

"Shit, Jim, would you just LISTEN to me - "

“ _We move_ \- “

“ _You don’t make it past here_ , Jim,” you yell, fists clenched, face white, eyes pricking, “you don’t _ever_ make it past this helicopter.”

He stops, stunned. You haven’t seen him stunned before. The anger all just - drains off his face. “You die here,” you say, voice shaking on adrenaline, “every time. You turn the key, it triggers an ambush from that shed,” point towards it, hand shaking, “and whether we get this thing off the ground or not - which, most of the time, we don’t - you stop here. I,” your breath is shoving its way in and out of your chest, and you advance three steps, “have tried _everything_ except siphoning the gas. Please, Jim,” you shake your head, “I am _so tired_. And I can’t, I can’t watch you die again.”

Between anger and pity, you’d prefer anger. The look he gives you is going to tear out your heart. “I’m sorry, kid,” he says, gently, and hauls himself into the cockpit. You reach for your gun and turn to the shed. There are tears on your cheek and nothing left in you.

The engine revs - the shed’s wall explodes - your gun rattles in your hand - but you’re not fast enough, you’ll never be fast enough, and the Thing hurls itself into the helicopter’s propeller. Throws it into the side of the house - gunfire from the inside of the cockpit - the Thing recoils as the machine hits the ground with a crunch, screams, gallops away into the shed again. Waiting for its next opportunity. You raise your gun again, and it beeps at you. _Reload_. Your ammo’s in the next room, where the helicopter crashed. You don’t want to go in.

Wood splinters under your feet, and you see faint movement near the cockpit, hear a low wail of agony, stifled under years of enforced disposability but aching, animalistic at its core. You step forward, cautiously, feel your breath catch in your throat.

He’s alive. You wish he wasn’t.

The helicopter’s lying on its side, but the shape is distorted hideously - the whole thing’s made of shitty, cheap metal and glass, stuff that breaks too easily. He’s on his back, legs above him, tangled grotesquely in the engine, burning, shredded. The engine heats up fast, you remember - too fast, and it usually gives out over the wheat fields - and he’s flailing trying to get loose from it. One of his arms is broken, filled with splinters from the beams of the house - the other one, mercifully intact. Three jagged lines crisscross his face from where he smashed it forward into the broken glass of the windshield. It’s not even shatter-glass, it’s just glass, who made this thing - you fall to your knees beside him. One eye made it, at least, and he looks up at you with it, concentrates on some effort, spits blood out of his mouth.

"Shoot me," he gasps, voice hoarse, "gun’s in my hand, can’t - _fff_ \- get it to move, help me…”

You pry it from his hand gently, check the ammo - three bullets left - press it to the eye that didn’t make it. This is the worst part, every time. You always hope he dies in the crash. “I’m sorry.”

"Pleiades," he gasps, "my middle name is Pleiades."

He dies before you pull the trigger, but you do anyway, stare at the hole in his head, close his other eye with two fingers. You can hear the Thing in the shed get tired of waiting, blow out another wall to get out, but you do nothing. Brush the hair from his forehead, hold his face in your hands. If you covered the other half of his face, you could almost pretend he was sleeping.

The engine sputters above you, fails, the Thing bursts through the wall, he is so

~~

You wake up on the bags.

You force your way through the day the exact same way you’ve forced your way through today for the past hundred - two hundred - you don’t remember anymore - times, make your way through the J-squad and into the Full Metal Angel’s training gym, past the buff, angry looking men who tower over you. Nothing gets a second glance but him.

He’s sitting in the middle of his training floor, entirely independent, eyes focused, and you cross to him like you always do. He stands when he hears your footsteps. You’re ready for the conversation. You’ve had it hundreds of times before.

"Who are you?" Right on cue. "Who told you you could speak to me?"

His face is perfect. No scars - gashes - glass - save the thin skin where his eye sockets press up against his face, Jim’s unblemished. And he doesn’t remember you again. You know your line.

 _You did. Tomorrow. On the beach._ The words are in your mouth, and you look into his eyes. They’re blue.

"No one, sir," you say instead, "no one. I’m sorry." Walk away. His eyes are hot on the back of your neck.

You have never tried a run alone before. But you can still feel his face in your hands, still hear him spitting blood, and God knows it’s not the first time he’s died in front of you, died in your arms or across a field or on the beach or whispering secrets to you like no one will ever know them. Each life he gets, you remember, is his last chance. He doesn’t restart anymore. You do. He’ll die on the beach tomorrow - you’ll get further without him there, maybe succeed if you’re on your own, and you won’t have to watch him bleed out

And if you do this time he’ll be gone, forever.

You lie in your bunk and feel very, very old.


End file.
